In the amber sunroom the regal canary perches,
Surveying his sun soaked kingdom from a golden throne,
Positioned just below the thick wooden rafters...
They might as well have been treetops.
The weathered oak armoire below, their immovable trunk;
The oversized tank, teeming with exotic fish, his ocean.
Through the translucent shades, the engorged sun turns orange,
And settles on the domes of the distant dragon trees.

Soon the silver haired woman, with "dust in the creases of her face,"
Will open the arched doorway, and into the sultry Moroccan air he will spring
Majestic yellow wings propelling him above the treetops,
Diving towards his vast ocean, circling between the dusty antiques,
Reveling in his glorious freedom, yet always returning,
For that is only the penultimate pleasure of every evening;
She will always call him home with the suculent scent
Of a luxurious dinner: mango, pomegranate, and papaya.

A sharp, tumbling trill disrupts his peaceful musing,
A flashing crimson streak leaves a momentary swatch,
Emanating from the open window, invading his territory and ending atop the amoire.
He refuses to look at her, intent on maintaining appearances.
She comes and goes so freely, innocent of any thoughts for me.
Feathers ruffling with discontent; jumping, leaping without direction.
Seeking the highest perch, closest to being free; only to be confined
By the bronze rods of social correctness, locked with the brass clasp of my own fear.

His little lion's heart becomes a battering ram,
Smashing against the inside of his toothpick ribcage.
Rapid fire thoughts soon dissolve in an attempt to compose
A song that is worthy of her. And so he waits, and watches her turn,
Red wings outspread, escaping back into the evening sky.
That blazing orange ball, finally sinking beneath its own weight,
And the failing strength of the mighty dragon trees,
Now merely blackened silhouettes of their former glory.

Standing in the August sun,
Your skin soaks up the light,
And saves it for November,
When clouds occlude the sky.

The gentle breeze softly coaxes
The folds of your paisley dress,
To gather up their courage
And ask your hair to dance.

Silent finches straining to hear,
Her soaring, piccolo laugh.
The waves cresting to see,
Her pure and radiant smile.

Like stars that come to speckle
The navy nighttime sky,
Each morning a brand new freckle
Appears below your eye.

Adorned with grace and charm,
With patience and joy complete,
Dare not to look away,
None other can compete.

Grumbling fingers,
Untying scarlet ribbons,
White banners to unfurl,
And forfeit to the beauty,
Of my gorgeous summer girl.

When I grow up,
I want to marry
A Hollister model.

Mother says
I should reconsider.
Seriously,
Reconsider.

But deep down,
I know
that's what I want.

Because behind all of
The airbrush
The diets
The workouts
The computer enhancements
There lies,
A woman.

And on that woman,
Somewhere,
there lies
Scar tissue?
A birthmark?
Or worst of all..
A zit.

Somewhere,
On that perfect woman
There lies,
An imperfection.

And that is why I love her.

A forgotten, almost sacred hole
Lies in the shadow of the bramble knoll,
Into the foggy night we stole,
Down, down into McGregor's Grotto.

We crossed the steadily flowing brook,
With fear and trepidation shook,
And into the gaping maw we looked,
Down, down into McGregor's Grotto.

The icy cavern was eerily sublime
Covered in mud and moss and slime,
Over the scaly rocks we climbed,
Down, down into McGregor's Grotto.

My eye into the darkness strains
When frigid air seeped to our brains,
And blood ceased flowing through our veins,
Down, down in McGregor's Grotto.

Bursting out, we took our flight
Escaping from the horrid fright
Of what we saw that autumn night,
Down, down in McGregor's Grotto.

We swore to never bring to mind
The thought of what was left behind,
Down, down in McGregor's Grotto.
Down, down in McGregor's Grotto.

A voice now forgotten, your memories displaced,
What once was warm and tender, beneath the ice encased.
Bluntly reignited, defenseless your voice entreats,
Searching for the source, finding treachery, deceit.
Endlessly tortured, by the ghosts that haunt this place.

An attempt to cope, to mask this bitter taste,
My mind stoicly vacant, then demanded by your face.
Gazing into the distance, catch a flash of golden hair,
Desperate to find you, but into emptiness I stare.
Foiled again, by your ghosts that haunt this place.

Habits I must repattern, and footsteps to retrace
Dispose of lingering tokens, never to replace.
Trying to redeem, the time I have lost with you,
And the time that I have squandered, I never will renew,
By chasing your ghosts that haunt this place.

Morning

Softly fall the bright yellow beams
Across the hardwood floor.
Awaken as the skillet scrapes
Across the iron stove.
In rhythm with the fizz and pop
As eggs and bacon fry,
And blending with the wind-chime song
Of black-capped chickadees.

Afternoon

Ambrosia air breathes calming scents
Of grass and lake and farm.
Pillow-down clouds and sultry sun
Reflect on sleeping ponds.
The sounds of summer pulse and course
On waves of humid air.
The maple crack of a wooden bat;
July's favorite pastime.

Evening

The apricot horizon fades
and bows to glowing moon;
While fireflies flare and fade into
The silver stars above.
As mellow as the mourning dove,
The distant owl sings.
Sleep well tonight, for tomorrow will be,
Another midsummer's day.

"Do you...?"
The elder asked in late September,
It wasn't difficult, I knew the answer,
But still I paused, briefly undisturbed
And every detail, I suddenly remembered:

Glancing look
Batting eye
Short of breath
Long sigh.

Chest pocket
Slightly pounds,
Deep breath...
"Nice to meet you"

Charming smile,
Class Monday,
First touch,
Dinner Friday?  

Silent pause,
Checks calender
"That'll work!"
Phone number.

Sweating palms
Nerves swell
Deep breath...
Doorbell.

Dad's request,
Home at eight,
"Movie premier?"
Second date.

Hand in mine,
Afraid to miss,
Eyes close,
First kiss.

Throat tightens
Tears form
First fight
Cheeks warm.

Things I said,
Were never true,
You see... Because..
Well... "I love you."

Bended knee
Golden band
White box
Take my hand?

Five maids
Five men
White dress
Violin.

Chest pocket,
Slightly pounds.
Sweating palms,
Nerves swell.
Throat tightens,
Tears form;
"Do you..?"

The elder asked in late September,
It wasn't difficult, I knew the answer.

Hope.
Hope is like the air inside a balloon;
You only lose it
when you chose to let go.

There's a gaping hole inside my chest,
Below my neck and above my breast.
For your cheek and chin, that line was drawn,
A place to rest from dusk till dawn.

Hope.
Hope is like the air inside a balloon.
Just because you can't see it
doesn't mean it isn't there.

A declaration of outright war,
followed her through the egg-white door.
Courage bellowed to hold the line,
but Fear already crept in behind...

I think Boldness ran first;
Wit just froze, likely to burst.
Bravery scampered close behind;
Their rapid retreat was well-designed.

Pride nailed my tongue to my teeth,
Fear breathed a sigh of relief.
Scorn decided she wasn't worth it
Seeing that she's less than perfect.

Apathy quipped, though a little tongue-in-cheek,
It was really he who had made me so weak.
"But enough of all this idle chatter,
after all, it doesn't really matter."

Of course, Pride would have none of this,
and began to expound on why he must exist.
Scorn simply sneered, Fear again panicked,
Apathy yawned, the Insecurity team was frantic.

The chaos of war crashed and clanged
Emotions surged like boomerangs,
But the arguring ceased and the silence broke,
when Courage stood, and Bravery spoke.

Hear me! Hear me!
In my head are thoughts abounding,
Yes, and insights truly astounding.
A wealth of wisdom, a trove of truth,
Waiting to flow, from me to you.
But please, Dear Listener,
Don't ask anything from me.

Listen! Listen!
Seek to understand and you will see,
The indomitable strength of being me.
Open your mind, focus your attention
Dear Listener and receive my cerebral invention.
But please, please....
Don't ask anything from me.

Yes, Dear Speaker, you are truly amazing.
With eyes of fire and a tongue blazing,
A mind like lightening, a voice like thunder;
Three mouths, no ears, a modern wonder!
A head so full there's nothing to give,
And so, of course, Dear Speaker,
I will ask nothing from you.